


Heavy Blows

by apidologist



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2013 TV Series), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boxing, M/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1737146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apidologist/pseuds/apidologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes is especially obnoxious, even more so than usual, and Watson can see no alternative but to teach him a lesson. He suggests the only reasonable solution to Holmes' orneriness: a boxing match. Things get heated. What more can I say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy Blows

**Author's Note:**

> I'm genuinely so sorry for this title. I can't apologise enough. Inspired by the new Russian series with Igor Petrenko and Andrei Panin, and might I add, written BEFORE the episode in which Holmes shoves the boxing gloves in Watson's face and tells him he's going to teach him a lesson. What incredible foresight. 
> 
> If you liked Basil's marvellously naughty artistic stylings for my last fic, he assures me that there's going to be more where that came from. Will link as soon as it exists in more than my imagination.

In the limited time I have spent with Sherlock Holmes, I have discovered that some days with him are markedly more challenging than others. At times I feel as though I am playing nanny to an especially precocious young troublemaker, with his attention-seeking behaviours and easy frustration (not to mention that horrid screeching at the violin) and at others I am taken aback by his extremely wise mind, capacity for observation, and depth of emotion. For some time, unfortunately, he had been in one of his more difficult moods, and even when the mystery was solved he remained incorrigible. After enduring nearly two hours of Holmes ‘enlightening’ me with regards to the more intricate points of the case (which involved a good deal of completely unwarranted mockery of my more obtuse questions and comments) I retired for some much-needed rest and respite.

As I attempted to find a comfortable position in which to drift off with very little success, I caught sight of my boxing gloves resting atop the flimsy chest-of-drawers which sat in the corner of my cramped room. Holmes and I hadn’t had the chance to practise recently due to our preoccupation with this incredibly trying case, which is hardly excusable considering the risk of his profession and his as-yet-undeveloped skill in fighting. I turned to my other side once more and the thought occurred to me that if Holmes feels the need to expend physical energy when he is angry or discouraged, perhaps I should try boxing for relief as opposed to the usual training or recreation. And if Holmes continued to be his charming self, perhaps the activity would have the added benefit of teaching him a lesson.

The next morning as I sat down to breakfast, I was in high spirits and had almost completely forgotten my irritation of the previous evening. I buttered a piece of toast and sipped my tea contentedly as the sun streamed in through our sitting room window. Of course, the calm of the morning couldn’t last. Holmes walked in and took his place next to me, looking as though he’d neither washed nor slept the previous night. I frowned and tutted depreciatively at the state of him, and continued to munch my toast, opening the morning’s Times and preparing to ignore the inevitable interruptions from a certain consulting detective.

I had just begun to read the crimes column when Holmes flicked the back of the paper. “There’s nothing of interest in it, I’m afraid.”

In fact, I was reading a highly engaging piece about…well, I can’t quite recall. It might not have been so highly engaging. Nonetheless, I pushed on and paid him no mind.

“A lost hat-box, an unfaithful husband, a false will…” He punctuated each item in this list with a loud flick of his nail on the back of the thin newsprint. “But I suppose if it were up to you, you’d pursue every trite or tedious little mystery which came our way, and fabricate a ‘based-on-true-events’ penny dreadful for each one!”

 I huffed out a sigh and responded without lowering the paper. “Yes, Holmes, I enjoy accompanying you even when the cases do not present such a difficult puzzle to your mind. And I believe the public would enjoy hearing about the less dramatic mysteries as well as the more sensational ones.”

“You and your sensation, Watson! You believe everything is sensational as long as I have something to do with it.”

“I’d try to keep your self-importance in check if I were you, Holmes.” I was already cursing myself for engaging him.

He crushed the Times down onto my lap and leaned over me. “At least your stories never have any hope of becoming well-known, if they are anything like your poetry.”

I bounded to my feet. “I say, Holmes!”

“You say what, Doctor?”

I heaved in a breath to calm myself, which helped only marginally. It was then that I remembered my thoughts from the previous night, and decided that it was time for this impertinent young man to learn a little lesson. “I say, Holmes, I believe you’ve been rather slack in your training lately. What say you to a quick match, nothing too strenuous, just a bit of practise?”

Despite the transparency of my motives, namely wanting to beat Holmes into the floor rather than educate him on the finer points of the left hook, he agreed, stating that he had some reading to finish but would be at my disposal in an hour or so. I returned to my quarters and paced restlessly, growing even more frustrated with the fact that he was making me wait, and I was just warming up some basic sparring when there was a knock at the door.

“Ready when you are, Watson. I hope you’re still in good form; I’ve a few tricks up my sleeve today.”

Tricks, indeed. I nearly broke my hand on that serving tray.

I opened the door cautiously, half-expecting him to hit me on the nose outright. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded, relaxed, and grinning. I wondered how he’d look in half an hour’s time. Holmes tilted his head, indicating for me to follow him into the hallway, and I strapped on my gloves clumsily, almost shaking with energy.

We faced each other across the balcony, loosening our stances and preparing our reflexes and bodies for oncoming blows. Each of us threw a few preliminary punches without any attempt at truly engaging one another, though I had to grit my teeth to hold myself back. He then began to pester me once more with a barrage of light jabs and punches to my head, and I played defence, exhibiting what I believe in retrospect must have been a truly impressive display of self-control. I then matched him, throwing a few punches and just meeting his efforts, and he responded eagerly. We gradually increased the pace of things until the combat was free and varied, and that was when I began to refine my actions.

It seemed he had, in fact, been training in his own time, though whether this training was planned or simply involved recklessly throwing himself into dangerous situations I couldn’t say. One day his keenness might even be a match for my skill in this area, but at this particular instance it was not, and I gained the upper hand again and again, letting up just as Holmes began to think he’d been beaten at last. This was my revenge for the merciless teasing, the showing off, the look in his eyes that told me he knew exactly how much he grated on me and the exact positioning of the line between extreme vexation and true injury of feeling between us.

I transformed in an instant from combatant to aggravator, pushing Holmes to his limits, and after a few good efforts on his part to escape the onslaught of heavy blows, he found himself trapped against the wall with my forearm firmly against his throat.

His eyes met mine, wide and dark and slightly myopic. It was then that I understood the most thrilling aspect of Holmes’ interest in fighting, and in fighting _me_ – not merely a practical exercise, nor just a way for him to vent his frustrations, but a means of gratification through the base physical contact which boxing allows, as well as in the knowledge that I could dominate him physically.

I firmly pressed my gloves against Holmes’ hips to prevent him from struggling against me, and met his eyes with the same intent. He gradually slid down to his knees and I braced myself above him, one glove resting against the wall and the other set heavily on his shoulder to ensure he stayed in position. He looked up at me, blinking and dishevelled, with a droplet of sweat running down his nose to form a confluence with the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.

I lifted his chin and checked his face more thoroughly. “Are you injured?”

“Not seriously, at least, not any more than usual.” He licked the mixture of blood and sweat, wincing.

“I’m sorry to have to be so rough with you, Holmes.”

“Do you… _have_ to be?”

“Yes. Sometimes it seems my usual methods of instructing don’t quite do the trick, with you.”

“Very well, I’ll forgive you if you make me look presentable again.” He began to rise to his feet, still shaking with adrenaline.

“Sit down.” Holmes fell back to his knees, trying to maintain eye contact. “As if you ever look presentable. What have you learned today, then?”

“When your pride is wounded you become absolutely diabolical.”

This was the final straw, my absolute limit. Anything within me that might have balked at my next course of action was effectively quelled by this relentlessly insolent mouth of his.

I brought my right glove to hover beneath his raised chin. “Holmes, I don’t think today’s lesson is quite finished.” His eyes drooped shut, the veins in his neck were raised and pulsing with heat. I touched his chin, feeling a slight quiver run through him, and stroked down his throat, pushing hard just above his manubrium until the back of his head knocked against the wall. He lifted his chin, encouraging me to press with further intensity, and I brought my other glove to the growing discomfort in my trousers just as Holmes let out a soft moan. “My fist hasn’t served to stop your mouth from making such impertinent remarks. If pummelling seems to be ineffective, I may have to resort to other methods.”

His eyes flew open and immediately alighted on the tented fabric just before his face. When he began to strain against my gloved hand in true desperation, I removed the pressure from his neck and braced myself with both arms against the wall above Holmes’ head. He slowly leaned forward, breath quick and shallow, to nuzzle the bulging hardness with his mouth closed, leaving a small blood stain on one side of the placket. I grinded my hips against his face and felt the tip of his nose slide roughly over the head of my cock. I groaned, and Holmes met my eyes as he began licking a wet spot into the fabric, lips wet and cheeks flushed. Trapping him against myself and the wall, I pressed against him even harder until his frantic whining and moaning was easily audible, muffled as his mouth was in the front of my trousers.

The noises he made aroused me more than anything, and if I was going to last any longer he would need to keep quiet. I stepped back and pushed my glove against his face. “Bite this.” He did as I ordered, and continued to look up at me with large eyes as he shifted uncomfortably on the floor. His trousers were as tight as mine, but he was going to have to wait a while longer for any respite. “Take off your gloves and unbutton my trousers.” Eagerly and with little coordination, he completed the task, and my cock jutted out from my pants. I began rubbing against the glove still held between Holmes’ teeth and he continued to make high, desperate sounds in the back of his throat. “I’m going to fill your mouth until you learn to think twice before opening it, and fuck your face until all you can think is my name.”

Holmes flushed an even brighter red than before, and shook his head to try to remove the glove which obstructed him. I placed my hand back against the wall and watched as Holmes’ eyes fluttered shut and his mouth opened wide to receive me. I wasted no time entering him, leaving him little time to adjust to the feeling of the head of my cock thrusting against the back of his throat. Moments later, I was on the edge, and as I was about to warn him of my impending release, he cried out, brows knitted, writhing on the floor. The sight of him coming to climax without being touched, his mouth stretched around me and his face an image of perfect pleasure, was more than enough to bring me to orgasm, and I followed him, panting and jerking messily against his lips.

Holmes gasped for breath, looking utterly debauched and even more dishevelled than before. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and there were traces of my ejaculate left around his lips and chin. I fell to my knees next to him and slowly regained my senses as I watched him attempt to compose himself without much success. Finally he opened his eyes and whispered my name, and I had no desire other than to kiss him, filthy as his mouth was, his blood and sweat mingled with my release. I licked his mouth and sucked his tongue, and he responded lazily and sloppily.

Downstairs, a door slammed and brought us both out of our hazy and contented state. “Mister Holmes! Mister Holmes, there is a lady waiting for you, a client, very well-to-do. She says her case is of the utmost urgency, you had better come down at once!”

Holmes quickly scrambled to his feet and immediately fell back against the wall. We both suppressed a giggle, and I watched him uncomfortably and uncoordinatedly make his way down the hall to locate some clean trousers and a cloth for his face. After a moment I followed to do the same, and not five minutes later we were seated (as presentably as can be expected under such circumstances) across from our client, who narrowed her eyes disapprovingly at Holmes’ cut lip and my bruised jaw.


End file.
